A work in progress can surprise you one day, suddenly endowed with permanence even as it remains incomplete. What is finished, at that point, is the experience of something as new. And maybe a reversal has occurred: the process has stepped into our role, now it is shaping us. Now it is determining its own course, with us as its proxy.
Our cabin sits atop an improbable hill on an oblong, unruly patch of the only land I’ve ever owned. It has been witness to Anker’s unfolding childhood and it is the most likely suspect behind the way I have kind of quit recreational travel. Ruda. The name of the nearby village that lends its meek administrative heft to our wooded sector (zoned for recreational use and as separate from the village as it gets) means ore, and it’s the name of at least forty-four villages throughout Poland. Anker might have been three when he inadvertently coined Ruda Lasu, a swift possessive that conveys just what it is we profitably extract from our cabin’s surroundings. Note that las is the Polish for both forest and woods, and most Poles will deploy the former term even when it’s the latter that better conveys their more casual, non-primeval meaning.
There is an evocative Japanese term, shinrin yoku, for being among trees. Forest bathing, the translation issues, and the proof follows: those volatile wood compounds wafting from trees are powerful tonics for the mind and body, so visiting a forest for sport and play helps seal the deal on a healthy lifestyle. (Don’t studies sometimes go to show the most obvious things?) But at our cabin we don’t just bathe: we get inundated. In shinrin yoku terms, we transform into creatures of the tree-sea for days at a time. Readjusting to the city is at times an ordeal (because city air is not air at all to a recalibrated body), at times a breeze (because everything is a breeze after one’s been mainlining the breath of trees).
Until a few years ago, the cabin served as my father’s little-used writing retreat, in our family since the late 90s, when my dad bought it at the behest of a friend whose history of summering in the Ruda woods had comparatively ancient origins, though it would end abruptly with the friend’s early death just years later. As for my mother, she likes to say Ruda is too far from the philharmonic. (Actually, it’s what I like to say as I claim to be quoting her.) And while it is true that my mom is neither outdoorsy nor reclusive, I suspect the real reason she never came to call the cabin her own was that, like me, she didn’t know what to do with a clunky 1970s kit house crammed with exiled furniture, defunct fax machines and long-expired non-perishables in the kitchen.
My own visits before Anker came along were no prediction of the love I would eventually gain for the place. Sparse, haphazard, forgotten—these were stopovers between a life paused and a life resumed. Each split my attention between awe for the trees and disdain for the decor. I tended to sleep on the front porch, in a sleeping bag, avoiding the interior unless I needed to use the kitchen, bathroom or sauna (which came with the house and held zero interest for my dad but plenty for me). Over awkward weekends with boyfriends who didn’t last, I don’t recall even imagining what it might be like to clear out the clutter, much less remodel the place in my image. The rules for respecting my father’s choices were unspoken but absolute: fantasies did not wander beyond certain boundaries. But life would surprise me yet, finding new spaces to grow into, and new sources of desire and perseverance and perhaps courage.
Anker and I first began planting our flag here during the summer of 2013. It was then that it became clear my half-Danish boy and I would stay put in Poland, and it was then that the process of redefining my relationship to my parents had reached a comfortable plateau: now they seemed less my looming family of origin (one step from me on the family tree) and more the adoring grandparents to my son, in his and my life on my terms (a full three hops away). Now asking my father to let me take charge of the cabin seemed less a selfish act and more one of prudent parenting. In fact, I’m not sure there was asking involved: it may well be that he offered.
So out they went: the rugs and the file cabinets, lurid velour armchairs and the cable strewn like tinsel across the worn roof. What followed was a new roof, and with it two skylights, illuminating the ever-dim pine-lined house in a way that at last revealed possibilities. In 2014 came the mattresses: four of them, luxuriously thick but placed plainly on the floor in the two compact bedrooms. In 2015, a sleek grey IKEA kitchen pushed out the fractured remains of the old. We also greeted the first of the bonfires, safely relegated to a clearing toward the back of the property and responsibly outfitted with a faucet and running water. With these bonfires, the fallen twigs and branches finally had somewhere to go, revealing the mossy vibrance of our wooded lot. As the season was concluding—these are not winterized properties, so before the frosts come the pipes get drained and the house is bolted up until springtime—my parents signed over the deed to the house and the land. Ruda Lasu was mine, in theory and in practice.
This was also the year when the new neighbors bought the adjacent property with plans to live there year-round. What a couple, too: she a nature conservationist, he a massage therapist, both raven-haired and of the right age and impressed with my cooking, versed in Ayurveda and as interested in us as we were in them. But on a cruel January day, just a half-year later, the cabin they had been renovating so fervently burned to the ground. Thus, our new neighbors became our former neighbors, and the view from our deck transformed into an unthinkable one, of a scar in the clearing where a house had once stood, mirroring ours for decades.
In 2016, the faulty wiring was fixed and sturdy new lights replaced the garish lamps of before. Again the difference was subtractive in quality: an improvement not of elegance added but of discord removed. A new vanity and toilet were installed in the bathroom, and next to them a long-awaited small-capacity washing machine. The work lagged, but what a summer it was when it finally arrived: unfettered by the tedium of hauling soiled laundry back to Warsaw, rich with the splendor of hanging clothes on a line stretched between our own pines.
For all these improvements, my generous father picked up the bill—with the signature vehemence that inflected his practice of generosity. I may not know exactly what my needs and wants wound up costing (his distinction, not mine), but I do have the sense of another kind of price. With every change I made to the house, my dad’s wistfulness grew. On his infrequent visits, he would pace the property, joking about notions of paradise and loss, the humor a poor cover for what might have been a sea of regret. At the same time, my father’s inability to recognize the value of an airy, alluring interior was subsiding, and with it his reluctance toward my enthusiasm. Each year, at some point I would mention that Anker and I had spent thirty or forty nights at the cabin that season alone—and my father would say that he probably spent as many nights here over fifteen years. He would sometimes ask if he could borrow the house for a few days, and I would often offer. I even made a habit of stacking kindling and logs in the fireplace before leaving for Warsaw, so he might enjoy the fire he never attempted himself. He asked and I offered, but he never did come, and I was not really surprised, nor was I exactly disappointed, because the boundaries of his territorialism marked mine, too. He knew and I knew: my invitations were well-intentioned sentiments of gratitude and decency—but I was not about to let him impart chaos on my order.
When the 2017 season arrived, things were different. The quarter-mile of disintegrating chicken wire encircling the property struck me not as in need of replacing, but as gracefully weathered and perfectly integrated with the land. The cabin’s patchy foundation seemed fine, painting it no longer a priority. Resealing the shower could wait and so would trimming the trees and planting blackberries. Though unfinished, our summer house was complete. And in Warsaw my father was dying.
Some of our last exchanges were about Ruda. About how we both couldn’t believe I’m finally done with the renovations. About how amazing it is to be headed to the cabin for a brisk April weekend. I hope you don’t mind that I’m leaving, I chirped to my withered father, and for a minute we shared in my elation. That evening, upon arrival, I sent my father the requisite text. We made it safely, the woods are sublime. Soon, I got a usual reply. Thank you, goodnight. How could I know these would be the last words my father would ever write? Or his last lucid response to my stab at communication?
I was a city child, raised is the vicinity of universities and philharmonics, and then I was a city adult, well-adapted to living on a seventh floor and working from home. I am coming late to the experiences a summer home offers, discovering their dazzling, edifying, restorative magic alongside my son, my wonder a lot like his, if less uninhibited. Every day eighty-five hours long and perfectly quiet. Books. Board games. Wild strawberries edging the house, tart bilberries for miles. Kanika, our family’s husky, now twelve. Hammocks. Homemade pesto. Fat mattresses that don’t threaten knocked shins or stubbed toes. Laundry aflutter on the line. The resin-scented heat of that sauna. Composting things. Sprouting things. Tending to the herbs. Hunting wild mushrooms. Preferring that there is no dishwasher. Having no more furniture than is necessary. Never making trips to the store. Getting sweaty stoking a bonfire with a thousand fallen twigs. Dabbling in pottery. Dabbling in having company. Every day, sweeping the deck of the sand that is everywhere and of the copious dust shed by our evergreens. Having reception so bad one gives up and forgets the internet. Magazines. Jigsaw puzzles. A child’s toddler-era toys, a father’s ashes. And a ritual stacking of kindling and logs in the fireplace before leaving for Warsaw.
The summer of 2017 is a time of mourning, but it is defiant with pleasure and tangled with paradox. A house stripped of a man winds up brimming with his spirit. Everything is a comment on a relationship, each detail evidence of a father’s generosity. Opposites, it turns out, aren’t necessarily made of difference. Consider, for instance, how identically unthinkable it was, for either of us, to attempt some way of owning the cabin together. But, in our way, haven’t we all along? This place—this stage for so much living—it has been an ore of more than we imagined. A victory for me. For my father, a sacrifice.
Work itself is an easement, or rather the completion of work, the proof of one’s capacity for it. Submitting articles that might as well equal their weight in tears of gold. The first, a possibly intimate one about the way tableware affects the experience of flavor, the other a zealous inquiry into olive oil. The writing, agonizing until it wasn’t (an easement as clear as Helvetica on a Retina display). Then, following up with countertop photos to accompany the writing: more proof, more relief, more easement. The weightlessness of momentum.
Tending to flowers is another kind of easement. Selecting or receiving them, arranging them, changing the water. Culling the bouquet until one stem survives, shorter now by increments, still fragrant and more beautiful than when it first arrived, one of seven, one week earlier.
Sleeping, breathing, a walk, a bath. These are, of course, the fundamental easements, but they are elusive or outright unappealing. The stressed body yearns to stay tense, the frustrated mind doesn’t like to relax. Hence the substitute easements: controlling objects into submission to create illusions of wonder. Cleaning things, arranging things, creating things worth admiring. Amid the projected emerges the real: exquisite tea in a favorite cup, honey by the spoonful, a child’s seventh birthday, the leafy zing of a fine olive oil, and then its nutty sweetness.
Life finds ways to assert itself after a father’s death. Obligations lead the way and the senses follow, until even pleasure returns from wherever it was it had to go to survive.
All photos by the author, taken in daylight using the Leica X1 (because the Fujifilm X-T20 is still not available) and edited in Lightroom. The articles referenced will appear in upcoming issues of Magazyn Wino and Ferment.
One week ago my dad got the funeral he deserved: big, bold, overflowing with gratitude both expressed and remembered. The day was a Friday, sunny and quiet—a harbinger of the summer to come. The speakers delivered their eulogies effusively, their fondness sometimes at odds with their sorrow. When I spoke, I spoke about what I imagined my father would have been grateful for himself, could he be there (that so many people came to celebrate his memory; that from the day of his diagnosis he had a whole year more to live; that he had been allowed to die at home, with me and my mother by his side; that the liberals had finally scored one for our side in France). I recounted in detail the time he told me, maybe a decade ago, that he believed the meaning of life was to create more kindness in the world. (Make no mistake, I said, he did not always have the patience to be kind, but he did regard kindness as the highest of virtues.) That day had been a quiet and warm one as well.
When my father was nearing death, I would occasionally turn to the poems he loved most, ones directly and indirectly about dying. I imagined I would find solace in them after his passing, and make them central to my experience of grieving, with its sleepless nights and requirement for verbal decorum. Startlingly, the very Iwaszkiewicz eulogy I translated into English for my father’s seventieth birthday, two tangled years ago, never made it into the speech I gave at the memorial. Just as in life my dad seemed perversely unafraid of death, in death he’s been impervious to poetics on dying.
Grief, I am discovering, consists not of epitaphs and tears, but of bewilderment and a sense of waiting (as if for the heaviness to lift, or merely for the pain to become unremarkable). My loss is not merely of the wonder that was a father’s love for an only daughter, but of the chance to right wrongs long abandoned, by both of us, as well as ones just uncovered.
This year, we celebrated not tradition but the spirit of it: modern springtime food that need not make up for a winterful of hunger. Also—our little family’s very definition of “special” fare.
I’ve finally mastered the inside-out roll, it appears. I’ve also confirmed that red onion, sliced paper-thin, makes an exemplary stand-in for scallion (featured here in the gingered salmon tartare atop the cucumber-and-salmon futomaki). As for the sushi meal itself—I’m enjoying it much, much more as brunch than I ever did as dinner, for reasons involving both daylight and digestion. There’s also the complex math of running at least an hour late to get the food on the table (a problem minor at lunchtime but compounded by evening).
We visited family, too, where hearts were heavy with sadness for a loved one gravely ill, but the main culinary event was definitely the sushi we had at home.